Me, Sam (1/1)
by Hardra61
Summary: Slight continuation of "No Room For Tears", this time it's Sam, 14, narrating more of the story as she observes her father and the changes in her life.


AN: Ok, you guys asked for it right? Here it is. This is one of those late-night things,   
so if this actually gets finished consider it a miracle. Okay, here we go.  
  
Disclaimer: I disclaim.  
  
More notes: Read No Room For Tears if you want detailed background, but come to   
think of it you don't really have to.....but do anyway. *NOTE:* THIS DOES _NOT_   
FIT WITH "BEFORE ME" the sequel to No Room For Tears. I was, like, halfway   
thru the story when I realized this. Be open-minded 4 me OK?  
  
And, Grammar and English in this story are slightly tinted; But I am characterizing a   
fourteen year old who does not quite have a way with words. Please be considerate to   
that fact as you read (and review!)  
  
Title: Me, Sam 1/2  
  
Rated: PG I should hope  
  
By: hardra6@yahoo.com you know me  
  
  
*^*^*^*^*^  
  
Me, Sam  
  
*^*^*^*^*^  
  
  
  
  
  
On May 22nd 2013, three important things happened to me. I won't tell you what just   
yet, but I'll say they're important. They're important.   
  
Down to the more immediate things. First, who am I. Well I'll tell you who I am, I am   
Sam M.M. Mulder that's who I am. Right now I'm fourteen but in 2013 I was thirteen.   
Last year, duh.   
  
Those are pretty cool initials, aren't they? I've always loved my initials. S-M-M-M. I   
had that printed on my backpack when I was still going to public school. But that's   
beside the point.   
  
I live with my dad. He's an FBI agent. Is that cool or what? No, actually though.   
What's cool is when he works Saturdays or I have a day off school or something and I   
get to come in to work with him. It's SO neat. First there's this metal detector thing,   
and I have to go through it but he says he normally doesn't have to. Then I get a   
visitor's pass that I wear around my neck on this chain, then we go to his office. It's in   
the basement. Which is cool and not cool at the same time, because, see, first of all it's   
kind of depressing down there and second of all it's got a neat sci-fi action series thing   
going on at the same time.   
  
I say sci-fi because that's basically what it is. Dad says he chases aliens and I think I   
believe him. He's got blurry pictures of UFOs and prints of Bigfoot and posters and   
junk all over the walls. And cool Navajo textbooks in the shelves, and all kinds of   
space rocks and deformed objects and other things that he says are from other planets.   
Whenever I get to see his office it's like there's something new and cool there.   
  
What's even greater is his division that he's in charge of, it's called X-Files. Now   
THAT has a sci-fi series thing going on. And according to the stories he's told me so   
far in my whole of ten and a half years with him, (I used to live with my grandma, he   
was abducted by aliens or something when I was born) he's got enough stuff to fill a   
sci-fi series.   
  
Sometimes.....I write about the stuff he's told me. Or I try to. I hear the stories and I   
think, man, I could be a great sci-fi novelist if I could just get this down. But I can't   
and I end up scribbling it out. Writing just isn't my thing and I hate it. (Most of all, I   
hate my Gateways English and Creative writing teacher, but that too is beside the   
point.) So I just listen and sometimes I tell my Mom about it. I tell her because she   
doesn't care if I don't capitalize the start of each sentence or spell grammer the right   
way, or if my sentences are to short or to long or if I use the wrong form of the word   
"to" for crying out loud.   
  
My mom doesn't care because, to cut to the chase, she doesn't really exist. She's a   
blue journal with "Sam's Keep Out" on the cover of it. She kind of died when I was   
born. I try not to think of it, though. I don't like to face the fact that the reason she   
died was because I was born.   
  
But Grandma tells me stories all the time about her, and I have pictures and lots of   
stories in my memory. My memory is very good by the way. Dad says it comes from   
him. Not sure if he means it or if he's kidding, cause he likes to kid, I'll tell you that.   
  
What was I talking about, though? Oh, yeah. Dad's work, I think.  
  
Well, even though he's in the basement he's got some people with him. I'm glad that   
he doesn't have to be lonely all the time. I heard that him and my mom were great   
friends and that he also didn't have too many friends, so I guess when she died he   
must have been super lonely and all. When he got back from being abducted, anyway.   
  
Anyway there's four other people in his office besides him, there's Mr. Normandy   
who's partners with Mr. Caseon, and there's Miss Alberck who's partners with Mr.   
Lloyd. Dad doesn't have a partner but he's their boss, and I guess they're friends too   
because they always used to come over for dinner sometimes. I mean, Normandy and   
Caseon, because Alberck and Lloyd were added on when I was eleven. Whoops, I   
was calling them by last names again. I do that because that's what my Dad calls   
them. I like Miss Alberck the best because she taught me how to use makeup.   
  
Well what else is there to tell about me? Oh, yeah. I'll tell more about my Dad   
because he's cool and everything.   
  
He is single and he says he plans to remain single, why I think is because he is still   
distantly in love with my mother (Forgive me, I am an adamant watcher of soppy   
romance movies) but that's ok, because I don't really like the idea of him dating   
someone, because he's always called me his girl and all.   
  
His real name (because, duh, it's not Dad) is Fox William Mulder, isn't that neat? I   
mean the Fox part. I've always thought it was neat but he's always felt differently.   
Which kind of makes sense. He doesn't look like a 'Fox', anyway.  
  
He's got a gun, well, of course, him being an FBI agent and all. He keeps it over the   
fridge when he's at home and he has been keeping it over the fridge since who knows   
when. But he makes sure I know it's there, just in case he says. He seems very sure   
there might be a case in which I would need to learn how to fire a gun. He even said a   
few days ago that he was going to teach me all about shooting and everything when I   
turned fifteen, just in case he says.   
  
Well maybe I should tell something about normal life with this guy who happens to   
be my much beloved father, so here we go.   
  
*^*  
  
I slammed my hand down on the alarm clock and got out of bed, feeling really sleepy   
and stuff. I yawned big and pulled out my top dresser drawer, looking for a shirt that   
was somewhat clean. Pulling it on sleepily I looked over my dresser to the Stars 'n'   
Moons calendar hanging above it, and I paused completely to find the date.   
  
Boy was I surprised when I discovered that instead of Friday morning, it was   
Saturday morning!  
  
I sighed and fell back into bed, curling up and closing my eyes. I popped them open a   
second later and groaned. Saturday = Basketball Game.  
  
Groaning even more, which I do a lot in the morning, I obediently seeked out the blue   
tank top that read "MULDER" across the back and "05" across the front and back,   
then the shorts that matched, and I pulled them both on groaning even more. I found a   
white ponytail holder and wrestled my thick long brown hair into it in a high ponytail.   
I found my mirror and groaned into it; I looked okay.   
  
I got up and Dad was already awake, he was eating Cheerios and drinking coffee and   
reading the newspaper all at once. I found a pop tart and put it in the toaster, and   
while it was heating he looked up at me from the table. "Ready to go?" he said.  
  
"Yuh," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.   
  
"Coffee?"  
  
"No thanks," I declined hotly. Coffee, yuck. I found a Gatorade in the fridge (yuh the one with the   
gun on top of it) and I drank a few squirts and was suddenly energized. Pop tart was   
ready, so I crammed it into my mouth, and Dad slowly got up and folded his paper   
and picked up his laptop briefcase thing and finally, completing the balancing act, his   
coffee cup. We went out to the car then.  
  
At basketball the warm up was slow and dreadful. It had to be like eight in the   
morning on a Saturday! And Dad and me had stayed up late to watch Blade Runner.   
Oh life wasn't fair!  
  
The game started and I was playing point as usual. Half asleep I dribbled down and   
lost the ball twice to the other team; Coach called time out and everyone doused   
themselves with energizing! Gatorade.   
  
What did that do? Oh, it helped all right, I was zooming circles around the other   
team's defense and sinking three pointers left and right but halfway through the game   
I had to pee really really bad. When I came back from the bathroom, I found that   
coach had put Laurie in and she'd let the other team score five points. Great.   
  
Somehow I righted the game and we won like usual. Sometimes I wish we had better   
players on my team. My dad taught me how to play. I've always loved basketball.  
  
But back to my dad. After the game we went to a little restaurant and got burgers. I   
drank a lot of water and then soda, because I like soda, and we talked.   
  
"Great game, sport."  
  
"Well, I'm awake now."  
  
"Maybe Harrison Ford got the better of us last night."  
  
"Maybe so. Harrison Ford is Han Solo, right?"  
  
"He's the guy in Blade Runner sweetheart. Yeah, he's Han Solo too."  
  
"I like him as Han Solo the best." I bit big into my burger then got to work on the big   
greasy French fries. We'd ordered just about the same thing. That's cool too.   
  
"So you've go the hots for this guy? Not Chewbacca?"  
  
"Laugh it up, Fuzzball."  
  
Dad tried to say something but he was biting into his burger at the same time so it   
didn't come out. Which got us both laughing at the same time. After a minute it died   
down.   
  
But you see? Maybe you don't but here is my point. Up until May 22nd 2013, this was   
what my life was like. It was filled with little things like this. I was always convinced   
I had the perfect family; I loved my dad so much...still do. Here's another example:  
  
*^*  
  
Allison and me both went to the mall together, alone. Allison's got a single dad, too,   
only she's also got a single mom and she's over at one of their houses at various times   
during the month. Anyway we were shopping and she said to me, "why don't you get   
your hair cut it's so long!" I was eleven then, so the ideas of my peers especially   
appealed to me. So we went into this salon and I blew two month's allowance savings   
on a good hair cut.   
  
It didn't look exactly like in the book, but the hairdresser was good anyway, and I   
liked the way it came out. It was down to my shoulders now, and it was very very   
light. I bounced around the mall with Allison afterwards, and we used her money   
because all mine was gone.  
  
When my Dad met us by the fountain in the mall at six, I came right up to him and   
smiled up, up, up, up at him. He looked a little sad and I didn't know why he would be   
sad that I cut my hair; I mean I'd never cut it before but that's just a reason to cut it,   
right?   
  
Dad took a step back and touched the edge of my hair. Then he looked away sharply.   
"God, you look like your Mom," he said quietly, and he didn't look directly at me all   
the way home. I haven't cut my hair since then.   
  
I like to look at pictures of my mom; she's really pretty and she has red hair. I don't   
know how I look like Mom with brown hair, but if Dad couldn't even look at me then   
I believe him. Until my hair had grown back out I kept it up in clips and stuff, except   
for those few times when he would come see me at night. He would brush my hair for   
me and it was just....nice. He is a very nice person. But I hate to think that I hurt him   
just by looking like Mom.   
  
The pictures of Mom are not very many. There is one very nice picture of her on the   
fireplace mantel; Grandma gave it to us. It was taken not long before I was born and   
Mom died. But it wasn't so you could see her stomach so you couldn't tell she was   
pregnant.   
  
I have one picture of Mom that I keep in the front of my blue journal. It's her and   
she's in Dad's office and she's smiling. I like to think that when I write in my journal   
I'm writing to the smiling woman in the inside cover of my journal. It helps to have   
pictures.   
  
Except for the one on the fireplace, there aren't any other pictures of her laying around   
the house. Dad doesn't like to think of her I think, and it makes sense I guess. I think   
of her a lot but if he hurts when he thinks about her, then I can think of her to myself.  
  
  
*^*  
  
Which comes to another issue in the life of Sam MM Mulder.   
  
Sometimes I do get to think of Mom with other people. It's at Thanksgiving, because   
Dad isn't there.   
  
It was something I didn't realize for a long time; It was just a fact of life. Here's how it   
went:  
  
One day, not long before Thanksgiving, I realized that Dad never came to   
Thanksgiving with us.   
  
"Dad," I said, "Why don't you come to thanksgiving with us?" I was twelve.   
  
He looked up suddenly and shook his head a little, then returned to his computer.   
"Um, it's just your time to be with Grandma."  
  
"But Thanksgiving is supposed to be for family, Dad. I mean, what do you do, sit   
around here? Grandma would love you to come!" I frowned.   
  
Dad frowned, too. "I'm sure she would, hon," he murmured.   
  
"then why not?!"  
  
He sighed and looked up and looked back down to me and turned his computer off.   
"Well, I guess I might as well tell you." I sat down next to him on the couch; another   
story!   
  
He cleared his throat and started to look a little troubled. I wondered why? "Well,   
Sam, the reason I don't come to Thanksgiving with you guys is.......well........  
  
"Your uncle Bill."  
  
I balked. Uncle Bill? What was wrong with Uncle Bill? "Uncle Bill?" I worded.   
  
He swallowed with difficulty. "Yeah. He, well, uh," he paused and shook his head.   
"He doesn't like me. That's all."  
  
"Sure he will Dad! He's so nice and fun! Except for Matt, Matt's a pain. He throws   
sofa cushions at me."  
  
"Sam, it's not about him maybe or maybe not liking me. He just *doesn't.* He blames   
me for a lot of, um, stuff."  
  
"Are you to blame?"  
  
He paused and got that glazed look in his eyes that comes whenever he thinks about   
Mom. "Maybe I am," he said distantly. "Maybe I am."  
  
  
Well, as it was, at Thanksgiving I couldn't help but stare at Uncle Bill and wonder   
how he couldn't like my dad. There was nothing wrong with him! He couldn't have   
done anything bad to anyone, anyway!  
  
So of course in the middle of the meal I was staring at my uncle and suddenly I said,   
loudly, and interrupting all other conversations, "Uncle Bill, why don't you like my   
dad?"  
  
Silence came over the table and everyone suddenly was watching me. I blushed very   
pinkly and found a nice spot to look at on the tablecloth.   
  
Finally: "Who said that?" Uncle Bill said.   
  
Erm. "um, my dad," I mumbled to the tablecloth.  
  
"Bill," I heard Grandma say quietly, sharply in a not-so-nice tone.   
  
Finally Uncle Bill said, "Oh, uh....." there was a long pause and I was really afraid to   
look up and see what was going on. Finally he spoke something intelligent.   
"Samantha, your father and I...."  
  
"Bill," said Grandma again.  
  
"We've had....differences," Uncle Bill struggled to say. I slowly looked up to   
Grandma, who was giving Uncle Bill a very evil eye. "It's not that I don't like your   
dad, Sammy, we just.....don't.....erm,"  
  
Aunt Tara saved the day, like usual. "Function well together." She didn't sound all   
that nice, but not to me, to Uncle Bill.  
  
"That pretty much sums it up," Grandma said under her breath.   
  
"Uncle Bill, why not?" I cried, trying not to cry in the other form of the word, "He's   
really nice!"  
  
Uncle Bill seemed lost for words, and Grandma did some serious talking-without-  
using-words before carefully taking my hand and taking me out to the back porch.  
  
We were both cold, it being November and everything, but we stayed on the porch.   
There, Grandma told me about how a long time ago Mom disappeared, and how Bill   
went and blamed my Dad for it, and how my Dad even blamed himself for it even   
though it wasn't his fault. That Thanksgiving, I learned a lot about both sides of my   
family, and the relationship between.   
  
Now, I have Thanksgivings with my Dad.  
  
  
  
Part 1 of 2! I know, I don't usually post double parts, but I'm tired and the rest of this   
will come some other long evening. Enjoy this for now, and the more reviews I get,   
the sooner I will post. Thanks!  
  
p.s. As you may have noticed, and as I stated before the story, Grammar and English   
in this story are slightly tinted; But I am characterizing a fourteen year old who does   
not quite have a way with words. Please be considerate to that fact.  
  
Later,   
  
Hardra6 [hardra6@yahoo.com] or go to my web page! (hint hint!) Where there are   
more stories by me.....although maybe not as good.......wait, scratch that!!!! (hint hint   
hint!) www.geocities.com/hardra6!!~ catcha later!  



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